


Delicious Duplicity

by Artemis_Dreamer



Series: Squishy MegOp [7]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Dessert & Sweets, Dieting (or not), Drabble, Fat Robots, Fluff, I'm Going to Hell, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Post War, Twoshot, Weight Gain, Weight Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 16:12:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9279464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis_Dreamer/pseuds/Artemis_Dreamer
Summary: He was powerful, without weakness. He had survived the Pits of Kaon, triumphed in the gladiatorial arena, and endured countless millennia of war. But slag it all, this overwhelming hunger was driving him completely glitched.---In which Megatron is thoroughly miserable, Optimus tries his hand at deception, and Ratchet gets absolutely no respect whatsoever.





	1. Ample Adaptation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PepsiGo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepsiGo/gifts).



> WARNING: This is a work of fetish fiction, involving weight gain, unhealthy eating, and implied belly stuffing.
> 
> Don't like, don't read.

It had been Ratchet who had insisted that Megatron needed to cut back on his consumption of organic fuels. Yes, the medic had actually had the gall to put him on a diet. 

According to the paranoid old scrapheap, "you're gaining weight faster than your frame can adapt, and it's putting stress on your systems."

"But my frame will adapt?" Megatron had asked.

"Yes." Ratchet had grudgingly admitted. "But you still need to cut back for a while to give yourself the time to adjust."

That had been all that the warlord needed to hear. 

Cybertronians had remarkable potential for adaptation, and adjusting to an increase in mass wasn't much of a challenge. This was a simple problem of his gain temporarily outpacing the efficiency of his adaptation protocols. His frame would return to equilibrium soon enough. 

In essence, he had no real reason to alter his fuel consumption. No lasting harm would come of his continued overindulgence. Such minor stresses on his powerful systems and such petty concerns of a paranoid medic were completely inconsequential.

The warlord groaned with pleasure around a mouthful of fuel. His indulgence of choice this afternoon was a heaping plate of warm, freshly made waffles, practically smothered in cherry jam and chocolate syrup. 

Primus. 

The war may have long since been over, but he was truly a Decepticon at spark. Gorging on such delicious fuel was made all the more pleasurable by the simple fact that he shouldn't have been doing it. 

Oh, the Prime would catch him soon enough - his conjunx was no fool, and was far too concerned for his so-called "health" not to be keeping him under some form of surveillance. Until then, however, nomech would be able to stop him from fuelling as much as he slag well pleased. 

Megatron's servos absentmindedly kneaded at his plush chassis as he continued to eat. 

His stomach had become truly massive over the past few stellar cycles, with not even the barest hint of firmness still remaining in the plating. His once-taut chassis had been completely obscured beneath rolls of deliciously self-indulgent fat. 

Toying with a soft fold of protoform along his hip joint, the warlord noted that he'd honestly never expected to become this huge. He had assumed that at some point, the increase in his mass would simply plateau.

Perhaps it would have, he mused wryly, had he not been constantly increasing his consumption. Every decaorn brought with it the discovery of some new and delicious type of fuel, and he had long since abandoned such petty concepts as restraint.

He had always been a mech who indulged heavily in the most base and visceral of pleasures. During wartime, he had indulged in combat. During peacetime, he now indulged in fuel. 

Pit, he could scarcely imagine himself in the arena like this. His mass was unwieldy, and would undoubtedly make combat difficult. As his conjunx often reminded him, however, the war was over. The time for combat was over. There was no longer any reason to fight.

Thank Primus. The only weapon he could likely still wield effectively was his fusion cannon.

On occasion, he still longed for the singleminded brutality of battle, but that could be easily rectified. In fact, Megatron smirked, it was about to be rectified right now. 

Polishing off the final mouthful that remained of his once-heaping plate of waffles, he tensed with anticipation. The Prime was stalking towards him with an absolutely livid expression marring those gorgeous faceplates, the look in his narrowed optics promising untold violence.

"You gave me your word, Megatron," Optimus quite nearly growled with aggravation.

"The word of a Decepticon means nothing, Prime." The warlord replied dangerously, knowing exactly how to push the other mech's buttons. "Are you really such a naive fool as to believe that the end of the war has changed that?"

A touch grandiose, perhaps, but his words served their purpose. Incensed, Optimus Prime lunged forward, tackling his conjunx. A smirk on his faceplates, Megatron allowed himself to be caught up in the momentum of the attack, and the two colossal mechs hit the ground with enough force that the walls around them shook.

"You are no longer a Decepticon," Optimus spat vehemently, attempting to pin the warlord's servos. 

"And you are no longer an Autobot." Megatron retorted. They both knew it wasn't true - in peace as in war, their factions continued to define nearly every aspect of their leadership.

Smirk broadening, the warlord caught a hold of the Prime's heavy chassis, groping it firmly. His conjunx was once again nearly as large as himself. It was a matter that would have to be rectified as soon as possible - preferably with large quantities of fuel. 

As Megatron's servos dug teasingly into the malleable warmth of his plating, Optimus barely held back an undignified yelp. A flush of energon rose to his cheekplates. 

"Surrender or be destroyed." A familiar taunt, challenging the Prime.

"Never," Optimus retorted defiantly, leaning in to capture the warlord's lipplates in a kiss.

For a moment, the kiss was merely a new battleground. Then, the Prime tasted the chocolate syrup in the other mech's mouth and moaned with pleasure. His frame went strutless, instantly becoming limp and pliant, all thoughts of combat forgotten as he lost himself in such delicious intimacy.

Megatron rolled his optics. Sometimes, it was almost laughably easy to placate his conjunx. A single kiss, and he now had a lapful of affectionate, chubby Prime cuddling against him.

Amusing as it was, it was hardly a problem. The problem would be keeping the news of his transgressions from reaching Ratchet's audios. After all, the medic may have been a paranoid old scrapheap, but his temper was truly formidable. 

Megatron shuddered. If Ratchet found out that he'd been cheating on his diet, he was well and truly slagged.


	2. Diet Deception

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This is a work of fetish fiction, involving weight gain, unhealthy eating, and belly stuffing.
> 
> Don't like, don't read.

Optimus Prime was a traitor of the highest order. He had betrayed his Lord High Protector, and by extension, he had betrayed the Cybertronian people.

Optimus Prime was a traitor, and Megatron was sorely tempted to restart the war. 

Well, perhaps that was an exaggeration. However, plotting his glorious coup of Cybertron did at least help to distract his processor from the aching emptiness in his tanks.

Said tanks roared with hunger, reminding him yet again of his accursed predicament. He’d spent the last decaorn half-starved, subsisting only on meagre rations of energon. An excruciatingly long decaorn during which he had reached the conclusion that no sane mech would ever voluntarily go on a diet. 

How dare Prime do this to him?

To a certain extent, he had his own arrogant pride to blame. Apparently, a simple kiss hadn't been nearly enough to placate his conjunx. Irate at having not received a proper apology, Optimus had gone straight to Ratchet and reported the warlord’s violation of his established diet protocol.

Now, between the dire threats of that paranoid old medic and the overwhelming scrutiny of his mistrustful conjunx, there was no way in Pit that Megatron could hope to properly sate his vast appetite.

His tanks protested again, even more loudly this time. The warlord growled with frustration.

He was powerful, without weakness. He had survived the Pits of Kaon, triumphed in the gladiatorial arena, and endured countless millennia of war. But slag it all, this overwhelming hunger was driving him completely glitched.

It was hardly his fault that organic fuels were so deliciously addictive.

Despite his best efforts, his processor began to wander. If he recalled correctly, Soundwave was currently perfecting a new recipe for chocolate fudge brownies. The spymaster was never confident in his own baking, but the warlord had no doubt that the treats would be excellent. Shockwave was also busy, currently in the midst of developing a new flavour of ice cream. The scientist claimed it to be a fusion of the best aspects of chocolate, raspberry, orange, and pecan. Doubtless it would also be excellent.

Megatron couldn’t help but fantasize, losing himself in thoughts of such delicious fuel. Thoughts of fuel. Thoughts of over-fuelling. Thoughts of stuffing his tanks so far past their limits that his chassis ached with blissful fullness rather than torturous emptiness.

Thoughts that were met with yet another desperate rumble of his painfully empty tanks. Not helping.

The warlord had often reminded his Prime that the word of a Decepticon meant nothing. Even as the Lord High Protector of Cybertron, Megatron was still very much a Decepticon at spark. It was about time that he proved it.

A quick perusal of their schedule indicated that the Prime was likely to be busy. He was scheduled for contract negotiations with the Spacebridge Repair Crews’ Union within less than half a cycle, and given the delicate nature of such negotiations, he was almost certainly bogged down with preparations.

It would be a simple matter to sneak into the kitchen and indulge in a bit of organic fuel. Or perhaps more than just a bit. Megatron was sorely tempted to gorge himself until this so-called diet was nothing more than a distant, unpleasant memory.

Entering the kitchen, however, brought him faceplate to faceplate with his conjunx. Optimus Prime, sprawled out across a creaking chair, one servo massaging his swollen chassis as he methodically stuffed himself with bite after bite of apple pie – a pie which was clearly not his first indulgence of the afternoon.

Optimus flinched with surprise when his conjunx entered the room, his field flickering with something that felt suspiciously like guilt.

The Prime rarely fuelled for the sake of fuelling, especially not while alone. And yet here he sat, single-mindedly focused on the task of stuffing himself with pie. Realization immediately dawned on the warlord, and a dangerous smirk crossed his lipplates.

"Trying to deceive a Decepticon, my little Prime?" Megatron inquired, his tone falsely pleasant.

"I don't know what you're talking about." To his credit, the Prime’s voice was calm and even, having already regained his composure after such an unexpected interruption.

“The diet." Megatron spat. "You’re enforcing this slagging torturous excuse for a diet out of mere jealousy. You can’t stand how much larger I am, and you’re willing to stoop to treachery if it means more easily surpassing my size.” 

The warlord growled with annoyance. “Frelling petty Autobot.”

Optimus flushed with embarrassment, energon rising to his cheekplates as the warlord effortlessly exposed his dishonesty. Yes, he was jealous of his conjunx’s girth, yes, he had in fact been trying to deceive a Decepticon, and no, he had no excuse whatsoever. 

Having an amoral mech like Megatron as his conjunx eterna was proving to be an unsurprisingly bad influence.

The warlord crossed the room with aggravation in his stride, but the servo that he placed on the Prime’s chassis was surprisingly gentle. “Already so full,” Megatron observed with amusement, stroking the firm bulge that had formed beneath that malleable plating.

In an instant, his smirk became devious. “I know just the way to punish you.”

He knew that he could make the traitorous Prime break down and beg at his pedes for forgiveness.

Optimus shuddered, unsure whether the thrill of charge that ran through his frame was from apprehension or excitement. There was no way that this would be anything less than exquisitely painful.

Megatron would proceed to redefine the word “full,” mercilessly stuffing the Prime with more fuel than either mech had believed was possible. By the time the warlord was finished, the Prime’s tanks would be throbbing with pain, his ventilation was coming in ragged gasps, and he sincerely doubted that he would ever be able to eat apple pie again.

Optimus Prime did not in fact break down and beg at Megatron’s pedes for forgiveness - but it was a very near thing.

An understanding had been reached. Ratchet was to be informed. There would be no more diets.

**Author's Note:**

> For PepsiGo - I known that you've been waiting, and I'm sorry that this took so long. I hope you like it. Thanks for always taking the time to support my work!
> 
> Any and all feedback is appreciated.


End file.
